


Being Switzerland

by treeson



Series: Vanilla Ice Cream Series [2]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling, Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-28
Updated: 2010-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:05:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treeson/pseuds/treeson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe that was what Switzerland was, or what she was to be Switzerland, or just who she was as a person, not a country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://community.livejournal.com/crossovers100/profile)[**crossovers100**](http://community.livejournal.com/crossovers100/) prompt _Months_.

"Have a first day of school, honey," Gabriel said. So much smarm rolled off him, she was surprised it didn't weigh the car down.

"Thanks, _Dad_ ," she said, rolling her eyes as she got out and slammed the door. She pulled her rucksack up onto her shoulder, made a face at Gabriel, and mentally girded herself for the experience about to come. High school. American high school. Acting when she couldn't tell a lie without turning red.

Thinking about the entire situation made her sweat. Why Gabriel couldn't come with her, she didn't know. She could do it if Gabriel were pretending to be some high school student, too. He'd just said the boys—Dean and Sam Winchester—had good spidey-sense. Hermione had looked it up. It wasn't a word.

Gabriel honked once—she jumped—and pulled away from the curb. Hermione tried not to let fear touch her as she looked up at the school—she was a _war hero_ , she had been in a _celebration_ , she had _medals_ —but felt her breakfast roiling in preparation of being expelled.

"Dude, is that your car?" someone said as she heard a squeal of tires. Gabriel, she imagined.

"My, er, father's," Hermione said, turning. Even thinking of Gabriel as a parental figure made goosebumps rise on her skin.

The boy—and didn't he just _happen_ to be who Gabriel wanted her to meet—whistled. "It's nice," he said, looking after it. It was blue and shiny and had a milkshake maker on the passenger side. That was all she knew about the car. She'd lost touch with what was new and old in the automobile world—not that she ever had that touch to begin with. She thought milkshake makers in glove boxes were obsolete, or only seen on bad Muggle films (so Gabriel having one was unsurprising.)

"Tell him that," Hermione said absently. She was supposed to find and talk to the other brother, the younger, Sam. This one—Dean—was her age, thus out of school.

 _As would I if I had any sense at all_ , she thought.

Someone said something to her, but Hermione didn't stop, didn't turn around. She had to get into the school before all her courage left her.

Classes passed excruciatingly slow while the times in the halls before they were summoned back to classes by the bell went by in a blink. The exact opposite of Hogwarts. Everything had passed in normal time there. It could have to do with the correspondence courses her parents insisted she take—Muggle lessons to match her magic lessons—every year. She'd got into university work during seventh year. She'd worked on it often when it was her turn to keep watch and then while reconnecting with her parents while she took the N.E.W.T.s. She had enough knowledge that none of the schoolwork challenged her, and that made school boring rather than exciting.

Sometimes, she could hate her impeccable memory.

Adventure struck after last lunch. She caught sight of Sam Winchester while he was in the lunch line and she didn't let him out of her sight. She ate with other seniors in her last class, wondered why Gabriel said knee socks would always be out of fashion—everyone here complimented her on them, especially the men (ha! she thought toward him.)—and managed to throw away her trash and get to the door just as Sam did. She let the crowd pull her back and forth and eventually she was walking beside Sam Winchester on the way back to class.

Before the torrent could pull her away again—the migrating patterns of teenage high school students would be one fantastic paper—she cast a Tripping Jinx.

"Oh!" she cried out, and grabbed the back of his rucksack to keep his feet on the floor. The books in his hands, however, went flying.

"What the—"

"I'm so sorry," she hurried on. "I didn't mean to- I don't know what happened." She didn't have to fake her distress. Part of her was screaming that the American Aurors would be here any second. She hastily helped him pick up his books, grateful that the other students at least went around and didn't kick them away, as often had happened to her in Hogwarts. That may have had something to do with Sam being _exceptionally_ tall for a junior. If she helped pick up his books that lessened the fact that she had used magic on a Muggle, right?

She _hated_ Gabriel.

"Look, it's all right," Sam said as she came back with part of his folder and science book. He smiled as she handed them back, juggled them with the other books in his hands. "See? No harm done."

She peered at him warily. He seemed truthful, not as if he blamed her at all. Which he _wouldn't_ , because he didn't _know._

"Still," she insisted, shifting to avoid a tuba player. "I'm sorry. This school has me backwards."

"You're new here, too? Cool." How was that cool? "Me too. Just this year."

"Today," she said, since that seemed to be what he wanted. She was rather lost. Was she supposed to be chilly? It was October, but North Carolina was close to the equator. Also, she was English and had grown up in a castle in Scotland. There were reasons they slept in four-posters.

"You look a little lost," Sam said, smiling in a way that made her want to smile back. She did. "Come on. I'll walk you to your next class."

*

"Heya, Sammy," Dean said, craning his head to see the slightest pit of panty as the skirt attached to the legs—attached to the _knee socks_ —got into the classic Ford Falcon. Oh, _baby_. "Who's the hot British chick?"

"Hermione Granger," Sam told him. "She's new."

"Weird," Dean said without heat, putting the Impala in drive. He managed to get the spot behind the Falcon in the exit line. He put it into neutral. It would be a while before the buses all got out of the way. Just gave him time to drool over that car. _Shit_ , it was nice.

"Shakespeare," Sam said. Dean glanced away to see him staring at him expectantly. "You know, A Winter's Tale? Hermione's the one who got turned into a statue?"

"This one _definitely_ isn't a statue," Dean said. He gave a low whistle and Sam punched him in the shoulder. _Ow._ Baby brother was growing up. "You got any classes with her?"

"All my AP ones tomorrow," he said. "I looked at her schedule and she's only in AP."

"Hot smart chick with knee socks. Trifecta of hot."

"Get this, she's smart and everything, but I don't think she could read a map. I mean, she looked pretty lost after she helped me after she accidentally tripped me, even though there's a map in every hallway. I ended up having to show her where it was."

"So you walked her to class," Dean summed up, laughter in his voice. God, Sam could be dumb.

"Well, yeah, but—"

"—and she was _so sorry_ and _thank you ever so much_ and just _so_ confused at this huge, new school."

Sam furrowed his eyebrows at the car ahead. "Is that bad?"

"No! It's good, _real_ good." Dean pulled up one spot as the line started to move. "She totally likes you. She's just sneaky at it."

"I _wondered_ how she tripped me," Sam said. "She was, like, one step behind me." He paused, drummed his fingers on the door. Dean waited, checking out the walkers who passed too close to the car on their way out. "You really think so?"

"It's either that or she's a ninja. Sense anything ninja-y about her?"

"She was in _knee socks_ , Dean. What do you think I sensed?"

*

"I don't think you should leer at me like that if you're supposed to be my father."

"Unless I'm your stepfather?"

" _Yuck_ , Gabriel," she said, shuddering. _Why_ was she letting him drag her around the country, gathering information on two boys for him, and confounding her morals for him? Because she wanted to find out what kind of magical creature he was that let him stay as young as he was when she met him in third year, know Professor Dumbledore, and have Professor McGonagall afraid for her safety with him. Also, there were free milkshakes and non-life endangering adventure.

Right. No reason at all.

"You know, I think I made new friends today," Hermione said. "Everyone was quite nice. I thought high school—well, _all_ schools—had a caste system."

"You thought they were gonna slot you in with all the nerds, throw pigs blood on you and cackle?"

"Yes," Hermione said. "Though I would have had quite a lot to say about the pigs blood."

"It's probably cause you're so nice," Gabriel said, his lips twitching as he glanced at her knees.

"What is it? Why are you laughing?"

"I'm just wondering which lucky boy I'm going to get to scare away from asking you to prom."

"Oh, shut it. As soon as you get… whatever it is you want to know about those boys, we're leaving." She frowned when he didn't say anything. "Aren't we?"

"Well…" he drawled.

This was becoming vastly un-adventurous. "What is it?"

"It's not like I _know_ what I'm looking for," Gabriel said. "Or that I'm looking for anything, really."

"So… wait. You sent me here, made me transform myself into a student—"

"Not that _that_ took much effort—"

"—so you could what? Get to know them? What is so interesting about them?"

"Maybe I just like seeing you in knee socks again," Gabriel said. He gave her his big eyes, the _I am just so silly and mischievous I don't mean anything by it, really, Hermione_ eyes.

"Do you know how many job offers I received? Twenty-four. I could be in Transylvania right now, an apprentice to the Potions Master making leaps and bounds toward the cure for lycanthropy. Instead I am here. With you. A almost twenty year old senior. It would be nice to have a reason for it other than the vanilla milkshakes."

"The milkshakes are pretty good. Oh, fine. What if I said your presence around Sam could be, hmm, beneficial? That you could be Switzerland between Russia and America."

"You're not Russia, are you?"

"Not America either."

"Which country are you?"

"Could I be Zimbabwe? I love Zimbabwe."

"You're not in it at all is what you're saying."

"Not in the least."

"Yet, I am here. Switzerland is here because of Zimbabwe."

"Say that again, but slower."

"What country are they?"

"None. They're the nuclear bombs."

"They're evil?"

"Bombs aren't evil. Bombs are flammable ingredients stuck together. Someone's gotta hold the match to them."

"Russia and America."

"Correctomundo."

She rubbed her forehead. It was disturbing how she had understood all of that. If Harry or Ron had tried to have that conversation with her, she would have had to have them spell it out slowly, maybe write it down. Because most of the time they acted like logical human beings. Most of the time Gabriel didn't. That made the difference. Like Alice and Wonderland. She understood it because she wondered the same things. Just like Hermione understood that conversation even though it had no basis in correct history at all because she knew Gabriel existed beyond history, and when he did exist he _made_ history.

"When are they destined to go off? Because I know destiny has to have a hand here somewhere. They usually do, for children," she added sourly.

"For a while yet," Gabriel said. "You'll have all the time you need to find a cure for the wolves before someone ignites those fuckers."

"Okay," she said slowly, "but I'm staying Switzerland."

"Good," Gabriel said. "You give good Swiss."

*

"So I heard you're an Ice Queen," Sam said as he sat down beside her. She made a noise of disgust.

"I don't understand this going out business. He wanted to go out, but not go anywhere. Does no one else see how illogical this is? I don't think he was even old enough to _drive_."

Sam covered his mouth, coughing. He waved off her offer of a cough drop and she threw it back in her bag and returned to glaring at her lunch. At least it had an apple, was all she could say about it. Never, ever would she let Gabriel pack her lunch and not look in it before they left the house. She always promised herself that, and yet it still happened every morning.

"He was asking you to be his girlfriend," Sam explained to her, keeping his hand balled up in front of his mouth, in case he started coughing again, she guessed. "That's what going out means here."

"That's ridiculous," she said stiffly. "I met him two seconds before he asked."

"Well, he was a freshman," Sam said.

"That explains it?"

He shrugged. "Basically a canary."

"Now _that_ I get," she exclaimed. "Why isn't there a handbook to this? My last school was _normal_ compared to this and we had to wear silly hats on important days. Why would a boy want to date a girl he met two seconds before? Is this an American thing?"

"No, I think that's an everywhere thing," Sam said. "But, hey, you don't have to worry about it happening again after what you did to Beeker. At least until all the guys forget about it. I give it two weeks."

"He was being illogical. I had to correct him."

"Not fighting you there," Sam said, before coughing again.

"So I am going out tonight," Hermione said. "But not with a boyfriend. I am going out on the _town_ tonight."

"I understand you," Sam said with a chuckle.

"I'm just making sure. Anyway. I am asking if you will go out on the town tonight with me. It's not a date, either. Just a friendly outing."

"You didn't have a lot of friends at your old school, did you?"

"Actually," she said, then paused when she bit into her ice cream sandwich and swallowed, "I had quite a few. They just acted normal." She thought of Ron and Harry, already in the Auror program. She thought of the letters asking what exactly she was doing that she couldn't exactly answer truthfully.

"So what are we doing out on the town tonight?" Sam asked. Hermione came out of her thoughts. She straightened and saw that Sam had switched his fries for her caramel popcorn. They weren't any healthier, but she would take it.

"Well, I'm writing a paper that I'm thinking of submitting to a journal on the migrating habits of teenagers," she explained.

"That's a little weird," Sam said uncertainly.

"That was a joke," Hermione lied. She cleared her throat. "I'm rather interested in the migrating habits of teenagers when they go to that go-kart place off Calmity Road."

"Really?" Sam sounded a little more interested.

Hermione took a drink of her milk, grimaced at the taste combined with chocolate wafer. "Yes, really. So would you like to be my control group?"

"That'd be cool," he said. Hermione translated cool into neat, nodded, and smiled at him.

"I'll pick you up at seven, if that's good?"

What was so interesting about go-karts, she didn't know, but she would find out tonight. Gabriel had been insistent on not going to any places that might say _date_ to Sam. That ruled out all restaurants, the cinema, any parks, and seventy percent of the town. It even included homework, for some reason. In addition, Gabriel said that, as her stepfather, he had to veto her spending any time with Sam and Dean in a motel room.

Not that she had met Dean yet. She liked Sam, though. She didn't know what would be so bad about his brother, besides the dreadful life choice to hang around Trisha Adams, another senior.

Or maybe it was because they were boys?

Sometimes she had the feeling Gabriel was the collie nipping at her heels, herding her toward some unknown but sinister location. Except Gabriel was the collie and the future destination and probably the wool on her back, too.

She arrived at room 451 at exactly 6:58. Before she could raise her hand to knock, the door opened and she looked up into—not Sam or Dean's face. This man—yes, man—was older and built like a steel door in an underground bunker, and had the welcoming smile of one.

"Um," she said, intelligently.

"You must be Hermione," he said. "I'm John. Sam's dad."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Winchester," she said, and her eyes flicked over his head where she could see Sam hovering. He looked anxious. She wondered what had happened, if it was her. Had they found out she was Switzerland? Was this the spidey-sense in action?

"Come on in," John said, stepping back. Hermione stepped in and he closed the door behind her. The motel room was neat, to her eternal surprise, for three men. There seemed to be an overabundance of duffel bags, but Hermione couldn't blame them for over packing. She had the habit herself. Dean was sitting against the headboard of one of the two beds, intent upon a magazine. John went to the tiny fridge in the corner. "You want something to drink, Hermione?"

Sam made a noise. Hermione glanced at him, but he just stared at John, lips pressed together.

"Sure, Mr. Winchester," she said. "I hope you had a good business trip? Sam told me you sell aeroplane equipment. Do you do any international work?"

"You know, I do," John said and poured out a glass of water from a jug. He had a smile like Gabriel's fourth smile, the one that sent chills down her spine. He handed the glass to her. "From Britain, huh?"

Hermione could practically taste the tension in the air. Sam looked angry, Dean looked—well, he looked as resigned to his fate as the chair being held over someone's head. John Winchester, to take a phrase out of Gabriel's book, scared the beejesus out of her.

"Yes, sir," she said. She took a sip of the water, to be polite. She wondered what kind of poison it held, or if she had just happened to walk into some family trouble. She wondered how fast it would take to get her wand out of its strap under her jeans leg. Too long. It tasted like water to her.

John eyed her with incredulity. Hermione, not knowing what was expected of her, took another drink of water, looking at the gaudy orange print on the wall.

"So where are you two lovebirds going tonight?" John asked, sitting down across from Sam. Something in the air shivered and let go. Yep. The water. Either poison or some kind of tracking device.

Sam made a low, embarrassed noise. As a constant companion to Gabriel in restaurants, Hermione felt for him. "Dad, I told you, it's not a date."

"Sam's right. But we're going to the go-kart place off Calmity. It has that strange little spire on top," she said. "Do you want my, er, father's number?"

He nodded. "You have your license?"

"Yes," she said, after a pause where she had to think of all the things she didn't want him to see in her wallet, including the card that stated she had the United States' approval to practice magic in their country. She wrote down Gabriel's number, or at least what she hoped was his number. She hoped that number he put on the refrigerator hadn't been another joke, like the number for a pizza place she should use when he was 'out of town' that turned out to be a crime scene clean-up business.

"You know," she said, trying to capture some of Gabriel's blasé in her voice, "I think you could give my, er, father some tips on forbidding presence. I had this conversation in reverse only half an hour ago."

"Really," John said. Hermione sensed the amusement in his voice was the normal kind, not the _I have a knife hidden behind my back do you want to see it?_ kind. What _was_ this family?

"I think your father wants to stick little push pins in my eyes," Hermione told Sam as soon as they were in Gabriel's car, doors locked windows shut. That was mainly for her comfort, though, and only partially because Mr. Winchester could make _be safe_ sound like a threat.

"I didn't know he would get back today," Sam explained, sitting low in the seat. "I'm sorry about that. He's a little…"

"Terrifying? Also, what was in that water? I had the feeling everyone was waiting for me to explode. You weren't, were you? Was it a tracking device? Will I die in five point eight hours?"

At that Sam laughed. "No," he said, the laughter turning uncomfortable. "I think he was waiting for a compliment. He takes water really serious. Like, imports it."

"It tasted good, I guess," Hermione said, staring at the door to 451, wondering if Mr. Winchester was staring back. She shuddered and put the car in reverse. "Okay. Next time, you're going to wait for me outside."

"Yeah," Sam said, but didn't sound enthusiastic.

Sam perked up exponentially when they got to Ted's Karts. Hermione felt the chill Mr. Winchester had injected into her spine drop off as soon as Sam thumped the helmet down on her head. She more than approved of recreational sports that required helmets and staying on the ground. There were quite a number of people out on the track already and around it—some she recognized, including Trisha Adams.

"Isn't that your brother's girlfriend?" Hermione asked, pointing her out by the concession stand.

"Yeah," Sam said with a laugh. "Don't worry. He won't care. Come on."

When Hermione got into her own go-kart, she was unprepared for the competitive spirit that took her over. She was going to _win this_. Sam narrowed his eyes at her from the neighbouring kart. Hermione ignored him, tightened her fingers on the wheel, and stared at the white and black flag.

They tied at second (Hermione came in an inch after Sam, though she would never admit it.) Neither of them was prepared for Gabriel to be on the other side of Hermione.

"Hey, isn't that your dad?" Sam asked as Gabriel whooped and shouted. From… somewhere came three women dressed in unfortunate clothing for October to surround him and murmur praise in his ear. Hermione pulled off her helmet and, no, the view did not improve.

"No, I don't recognize him at all," Hermione said. "Look, they have pizza. Let's go get some. Quickly."

Sam looked over his shoulder as he let her drag him away. He gulped, paled, and a second later he was pulling her. Merlin. _Gabriel_. She would do something _vile_ to him.

"He's my stepfather," Hermione said when they were in line behind Cory Whitten, fellow senior. "Is there such a thing as a distant stepfather? Because that's him."

"I don't think it matters to him," Sam said.

"Just don't look at him and he'll get distracted. He has the memory of a goldfish."

"It's a good thing this isn't a date," Sam said. "Or else we'd both end it right here."

Hermione laughed. "It would go the way of the canary."

"But it would be something to tell our children."

"A cautionary tale?" she enquired, and their conversation was suspended as they ordered. Hermione ignored Gabriel's presence much like the ant ignoring the magnifying glass, and sipped her extra large cola.

Once they got their slices, they mutually agreed to eat them at the picnic tables at the side of the building, even though it was dark and the streetlamp over it out. They sat across from one another, enough light from the setting sun to see each other by, and steered clear of any conversation about their respective fathers.

"It's always been Stanford for me," Sam said. He snorted over his box of fries. "Anywhere that'd take me, I guess."

"Universities are going to be begging you to go there," Hermione told him.

"Have you started on your applications?" he asked her, shrugging off her attention. She let him, sat back. Looked at the gravel underneath the table over.

"No," she said, narrowing her eyes. "I'm already taking some correspondence classes. But actually go live in a dormitory? No. I like where I am now, I suppose, even though I never thought I'd be there. Sorry. I'm babbling. What _is_ that in the gravel?"

Sam turned to look, frowned. Hermione stood and pulled out her keys, isolating the penlight and turning it toward the ground. "It looks like something's been… dragged?" Something big and heavy enough to leave indentions in the gravel. The light wasn't strong enough to show her where the track went. She took a step forward, ready to follow it, when Sam put his hand on her arm. She looked down at it and then up at his face.

"Don't," he said. "Why don't you go get an adult?"

"I think it's just trash, but if it's a monster, I'm sure we can outrun it," Hermione said. She paused. "Mostly sure. Come on."

She started forward, her penlight in the lead. She heard Sam muttering under his breath. "What monster would be behind Ted's Karts?"

"Quite," she answered, though the further they got from the front of the building the less light there was. The trees began blocking the sun, the streetlamp from the front didn't reach back here, and her penlight was about as useful as using a jump rope to climb Mount Everest. She swallowed. The air seemed cooler, the dark darker, the silence filled with more silence.

"I don't like this," Hermione said.

"You should go back," Sam told her. But he kept going, so she did. He was an unarmed Muggle and she was a decorated war hero. She had ridden on the back of a _dragon_ , for goodness sakes. She wasn't going to let him go alone.

She thought about her wand—but what if it was nothing? Sam would wonder about the stick she strapped to her ankle, certainly.

"It's going into the woods," Sam said. She could see the white of his jacket as he pointed.

"We're not going back there," Hermione said, with finality. "Let's both go get an adult."

He hesitated. Hermione wrapped her hand around his elbow and pulled. He didn't budge, but neither did she.

"Please don't be a hero," she said, and dug her fingers into a nerve she'd often used with Ron.

"Okay, but let's hurry," Sam said, beginning to back away, then turning and jogging back toward the front. Hermione went slightly slower, sweeping the ground with the penlight. Besides the track, there was nothing. No blood. Relief tasted like the garlic from the pizza. Hermione quickly deposited their trash in the trashcan while Sam hovered anxiously, and then they went back inside. Hermione looked around for Gabriel while Sam went to find the manager, but he had left sometime while they were outside. Blast him.

When Sam came back, they said, "I think we should go," at the same time. She grinned at him. "Okay."

Hermione dropped him off ten minutes later, waving to Mr. Winchester when he opened the door. Home next. She turned left, going out of the center of town and into the outskirts where the only neighbours were deer and the occasional jaguar. No one seeing any owls flying there thought it odd, and the occasional explosions from wherever Gabriel was were politely ignored.

"Gabriel?" she called as soon as she shut the kitchen door. She stopped, listened for moans from upstairs, but heard nothing. She decided to save it until she had her coat off and her wand out anyway. There was always the chance (her mind had more scars than a Weasley from the things she'd walked in on.)

"You think the turret's too much?" Gabriel asked. He shook the cheese whiz while pursing his lips in contemplation at the cheese castle. Hermione could see a raptor guarding the drawbridge; though not traditionally a guardsman it looked quite ready to protect the dairy inhabitants of the castle.

"I like the flag," she said. "Oh, it waves. That's… mildly disturbing."

Gabriel smiled at it like a dad over a crib. "Yes. It is. How was your date?"

"It went – it wasn't a date. You made sure it wasn't. However, as an outing between friends, it was quite nice, until this creepy pervert showed up and ruined everything, and then there was the drag marks outside. I think something's living in the woods behind Ted's Kart."

"Couple miles back, actually," Gabriel said. "In this little gully I found. Little Hobbit world. Well, if the Hobbits were actually miniature Vikings with a _horrible_ eczema problem. By that I mean, none." He made a face as if he'd swallowed a horse tranquilizer without water. "Stuff of nightmares, that."

"Um." Hermione stared at his left shoulder, covered in shiny leopard print, as she tried to make her brain go in straight patterns again. "May I ask why…?"

"Let's just call them your modern day elephant men," Gabriel said. "Don't worry, sweetie, John Winchester's attention will be occupied for a while."

"What ever are you talking about?"

He squirted a stream of cheese into his mouth, making a face as he chomped on it. "John Winchester's a hunter. And not the hillbilly, let's crush beer cans against my head kind of hunter. He goes for bigger meat than Bambi."

"Humans? No." She stared hard at him. "Elephant men? But you said they were tiny. _Oh._ Monsters. I thought Sam seemed a little too calm when we started following that trail."

Gabriel's eyes travelled down her body. Hermione, inexplicably, thought he was checking her over instead of out. For once.

"I didn't follow it into the trees," she said before he could tell her to turn around. "I didn't want to get out my wand in front of Sam."

"Don't," Gabriel said. "Or he'll shoot you."

"That's something you should have told me at the beginning. Did that elephant man take someone?" It was out of her mouth before she could stop it. She wouldn't have stopped it.

The skin at Gabriel's eyes stretched while his lips thinned. "Do you really want to know?" he asked lowly.

Hermione bit her lip. Let it go. "Yes. Yes, I do want to know."

"Glad to see your trust in me," Gabriel said, showing more teeth than necessary.

"I trust you with me," Hermione said. "I wouldn't be here otherwise, and I definitely wouldn't be playing Switzerland for you. Besides, I had Dumbledore's rather ambiguous approval, but that doesn't count as much after how utterly he – But to know you're strong enough to actually create some… golem, is that what it is?"

His smirk was too satisfied.

"I see," she said. She sat down on the coffee table across from him. She stared at his pink slippers. Bunnies this time, with dead little eyes. He was an entirely different _species_. He was – he was immortal, or the most powerful wizard that had ever walked the Earth. Why did she expect him to have human expressions, morals? Hadn't she known all this already? Merlin, her head hurt. "This isn't in the contract," she said, her throat tight.

He shrugged. She examined it, tried comparing it to his other shrugs through the years. Did it look different at all? Did he even comprehend how _wrong—_

The worse thing was that she couldn't tell.

Gabriel's sharp eyes watched her shoulders slump. She looked away, shook her head as she stood up.

"God, you are the _biggest_ wet blanket," he said. He rolled his eyes and stood up. "They'll have a few scratches, some altered memories, nothing _serious_. God."

"You checked me over," Hermione said, insistent and loathing the fact that she had to be, that she couldn't just _let it go_. "When I said I followed that trail you checked me over. If you're not lying, then you don't think you have perfect control over whatever you made."

"I have perfect control," Gabriel snapped.

"Then why were you worried I was injured?"

His lips compressed again. Though he was only a few inches taller than she was now, it seemed like kilometers. His eyes pinned her like an eagle, like a mountain. "Maybe," he said quietly, "I wanted to know this. How far you'll let me get off the leash."

She whipped around and stomped toward the door. Got to it and whipped around again, pointing her finger at him. She couldn't hold her hand steady she was so angry. "Face it, Gabriel, I _don't know you_. At all. I know you like sugar and women and showing up when I'm missing you. But do I know your morals, your innermost thoughts? You're powerful, Gabriel. Do you know how many powerful men—no, they _did_ rule my life. I trusted one of them so much I would have _died_ for his stupid obsession with circumventing Death. I allowed him to treat me, _me_ , like a pawn, someone to slow Harry Potter down, because 'of course the Hallows are a fairy tale, Harry!' I'm not going to support sacrifice ever again. That's how far the leash goes, if you want to put it that way. I prefer: that's how far _I_ go."

"Oh, _come on_ ," he said, his face twisting. "You knew all along you were a pawn. You're too smart to not know exactly what you are."

"I'm not that intelligent, then. I only knew that I was fighting for my right to live," she spat. "I knew I was fighting for my best friend. Not to be led around by my stupid nose."

"Everyone's a pawn for the powerful," Gabriel told her, and turned away. "You better get used to it."

"I'm not," she said. "Ever again."

She told her feet to move. Couldn't. Took one step back and went forward. Because they went round and round and still she didn't know why he was mad, or even why she was yelling at him. And he was wearing that stupid leopard print robe and she kind of wanted to make fun of him for it, but not in a mean way, but that required them—her to just _let it go._

She clenched her jaw. Why was she only capable of letting go of the things she wanted to keep? Why was this the only option that looked remotely appealing, the one that broke every moral she ever believed in into bite sized pieces?

"Why did you create a monster for John Winchester to hunt?"

He looked over his shoulder. The silk leopard print shimmered as he moved back toward his castle of cheese-whiz. "He'll stay longer. When he catches that, I'll do it again and make it craftier. I didn't think you'd like following them all over Earth. Besides, they would've spotted you."

"You might want to start writing our secret plan in code," Hermione told him. "I think John planted a listening device inside me."

"You missing ten minutes or something?"

"I drank something he gave me and they waited for me to explode."

"Yet here you are."

"Yes. Here I am." She opened her mouth, shut it. "I know you're using me. I was never unaware of that fact," she said quietly. "But you're still Zimbabwe, right? Not Russia or America?"

"Too cold, too much… country music."

"I'll stay Swiss," she said. "But I'm not a pawn to sacrifice, or someone you need to find a sacrifice to replace. Sacrifices in general—unless they're just there to get pie in the face, not blood. I want that in the contract."

"The only sacrifice you'll be is mine," Gabriel said. The leer was back in his voice. "Now go put on something more comfortable and come sit on your daddy's lap."

"Don't bring my dad into this," she snapped without real heat. He laughed as she left the room.

*

"Could you come pick me up?"

Hermione paused in the act of buttoning her shirt.

"Is your dad there?" she asked into the phone. "Not that it has any bearing on the matter."

"Sure," Sam drawled. "No, he's not here. And we only just found out that someone put sugar in Dean's gas tank."

"Is sugar bad on gas tanks?" she asked.

"The tank'll have to be dumped out, but it's easy work. Just not quick."

"Think it was Trisha? She looked _supremely_ pleased with herself last night, for a girl who confuses equations with the equator."

"You know Dean. Actually, you don't. Which is enough." She heard someone talking in the background.

"He dates only the top."

"Yeah, but what's always floating at the top?"

She snorted. "Okay. I'll ask my—"

"—er, father?"

"Shut it, you. I'm just very uncomfortable telling people he's my father. Can you blame me?"

"I don't know, I saw his harem—"

"— _harem_?" She heard clearly.

"Everyone wants to know about the harem," she complained as she walked down the stairs. She saw the note on the fridge, could read it from across the room. "Okay. He's busy, probably with them, so I'll be there in… thirteen minutes. Does Dean need to be dropped off anywhere? We have time before school."

She got off the phone, put it on the charger, tore the piece of paper off the fridge, and shredded it in the blender.

That wasn't even anatomically possible. 


	2. Being Switzerland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe that was what Switzerland was, or what she was to be Switzerland, or just who she was as a person, not a country.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [](http://community.livejournal.com/crossovers100/profile)[**crossovers100**](http://community.livejournal.com/crossovers100/) prompt _Months_.

"Heard you made some freshman cry," Dean said as he slid into the backseat. The car was so close his knee touched her elbow before he shifted it.

"That is a gross exaggeration and could be deemed slander," Hermione said, without taking her attention off adjusting the rearview. She couldn't get it right no matter what she did.

Sam turned around in his seat, his head almost brushing the top. "That means—"

"Shut up, I know what it means." Hermione tried the mirror one last time, swore under her breath, and reversed out of the car park. She saw Dean fling his arm over the back of the backseat while Sam fiddled with the radio.

"This is a nice car," Dean said. "Your dad do the restoration?"

"My, er"—she glanced sideways at Sam—"I don't know what Gabriel did, or whether he bought it as is." Actually, she'd seen it appear from nowhere—which defied so many rules of logic it _hurt_ to see—so she knew exactly how much time went into it. So many boys at school had complimented her on it, however, that she still made sure to drive it carefully, no matter its origins.

"What's this?" Sam asked. She looked over to see the glove compartment open.

"A milkshake maker," she answered. The car went silent. "It would be cool if it worked. That's how you say it, right?"

Dean snorted in the backseat.

"Yeah, that's how," Sam said sadly.

"So what do you think made the drag marks?" she asked. "I hope no one was hurt. Gabriel said it was probably an animal or even just one of the workers at Ken's dragging a trash bag or something. Maybe a tire. I hope it was that and not… you know. I'm still ever so glad we found it, though. Maybe while we were sleeping they searched, and just found somebody who became lost and… okay, that makes no sense."

"They said they were searching on the news this morning," Dean said. "They connected it with a guy who's been missing for a day or so."

"I hope he's okay," Hermione said nervously.

"It's good you saw it," Sam told Hermione. She could tell he was trying to calm her down. She felt sick, leading them on like this when she knew exactly what it was. It made her stomach roil. Why, oh why had she asked Gabriel about it? Now she was babbling and anxious and she couldn't feel her feet. "It's given the police a new lead to follow."

"Thanks," she said quietly, her hands loosening their grip on the wheel. She sent Sam a tired smile. "Sorry for going mental."

"Turn's up here," Dean told her. "On the right."

Hermione pulled into the turn lane, flicking on the signal as the light turned red. She tried adjusting the mirror again, failed, and gave it up as a bad job. She'd just be stuck seeing Dean's left arm and the seat.

She pulled up in front of City Hall a minute later. Sam got out and Dean pushed the seat forward to get out. Then he sat down in Sam's seat. "Just a sec, squirt."

"What—?" Sam huffed, folding his arms. "Dean, we have to get to school."

Dean smelled like leather, matches, and some sort of cologne that made her think of dark water and shady alleys. He flipped open his knife with a grin at her, then reached up to slide it somewhere behind the rearview mirror. Hermione unlatched her seatbelt, almost standing on the floorboard to watch as he wriggled it into a crack between the mirror and the holder thing. He wriggled it some, looking intent and half-uncomfortable, as if he wasn't sure it would work, but when his other hand grabbed the mirror and pulled up, the mirror moved as it was supposed to.

"Oh, _thank_ you," she breathed, grinning at him. She sat back and adjusted the mirror carefully, her smile only growing when she could see behind the car. "Nice one."

"No prob," he said, closing his knife. "Thanks for the ride."

"Yes, anytime," she said absently, moving the mirror to get it just… right. "Just give me a ring."

"You know he totally just hit on you," Sam said when she pulled back onto the street. "Showing you the knife, how _cool_ he is carrying it, fixing the mirror. Yeah, total Dean. He's been wanting to hit on you forever."

"Well, if you tell him to ask me to prom, Gabriel will scare the beejesus out of him," Hermione said. "He's already promised it."

"Considering what he did to _me_ , it might even work," Sam said with a huffing laugh. "So where's your mom and real dad?"

"They travel a lot," Hermione said. "And it's just easier telling people Gabriel's my father – or my stepfather – than dealing with the stigmatism that surrounds an eighteen year old girl living with a thirty year old man of no relation. But he's my godfather and when I decided I didn't want to keep spending holidays at school, they asked Gabriel if he would be willing and he said yes. I think he likes playing father, to be honest." She stopped talking, because she was beginning to babble again. She should have just kept Gabriel as her, er, father.

But it felt better calling him Gabriel. Not just easier but _right_ (but easier, definitely.)

"You're not close to your parents, then?" Sam asked her, leaning against the door to look at her better.

"We used to be," Hermione said. "What about you? Oh, I'm sorry. Nevermind."

"It's okay," Sam said. "We just… want different things. It's like we're on the same page, but different paragraphs."

"I'm sorry," she said, honestly. "I hope it works out for you both."

"I mean, look what he did to you." Oh, Merlin. Finally get him to talk and he's not going to shut up. She didn't want to hear this, she didn't want to hear this—Switzerland, she thought fiercely. Switzerland. "You're, like, the nicest girl I've met—besides that whole making Beeker cry thing—"

"I did not."

"Yeah, you kinda did. I didn't find out until Chris Patterson caught me when I was getting the manager and told me to watch out. I forgot to tell you. But, besides that, you're the nicest girl in school and he scared the crap out of you over _go-karts_. Come on, how messed up is that? It's supposed to be _your_ dad scaring me, not the other way around."

"Gabriel did scare you. He actually _showed up_ , if you recall."

"But I'm a _guy_. He treats me like I'm seven."

"Will you stop trying to get the milkshake maker to work," she snapped. "It's very distracting and I'm hungry enough as it is." I am Swiss. I am not involved, not getting involved. "Now I feel bad. I'm sorry. I suppose you've tried telling him how you feel?"

"That's the problem." Sam sighed and let his head fall back. "We just fight. I like it a lot better when it's just Dean and me."

She pulled into the school and parked almost near the exit. It would be difficult to get out when school ended and everyone was trying to leave at the same time, but it wasn't like she had any especial place to be.

"I can't believe I made him cry," Hermione said when the key was turned off and the engine cooling off with tiny ticks. She ran her fingers over the slippery chrome of the wheel. "I feel horrible now. I didn't do it to be mean, I just didn't understand him. Actually, I thought he was pranking me. Badly. I've been expecting someone to every day now. I'm not a very… likable person."

"I don't think anyone's planning on doing that to you now," Sam said. "And I think how everyone laughed at him after was more the cause than you, so don't apologize."

"Why?" she asked, surprised. Hermione realized they needed to be inside soon and popped the trunk. "Lock the door, please."

Sam made a face at her as he pulled their rucksacks from the trunk, handing hers over. "It'd just humiliate him more. Sad truth. Don't worry, he'll get over it."

Except when Hermione finished the school day and walked out with Cory Whitten, tired of repeating both the story of what she and Sam found and what she and Sam were doing when they found the drag marks ("No, we're not dating." "I wouldn't know how he kisses." "Did you put sugar in his brother's gas tank?"), and just generally tired of all the staring (it hadn't been this bad _yesterday_ , when the gossip was freshest,) she found Gabriel's car egged, lewd drawings on every window, and the chrome grill dented. The _bitch_ painted on the top was just icing.

"Well," she said, staring at it. A crowd was gathering. She saw Sam making his way toward her out of the corner of her eye and beside her Cory's mouth wouldn't close. "Now I'm glad I didn't apologize."

"Last time I listen to you," Hermione told Sam sourly half an hour later, when they're sitting in front of the motel. Some junior in love with Sam that lived across from the school offered her garden hose to wash off the car. It got the egg off, though the drawings on the windshield blocking her clear sight of the road were more troublesome. She ended up muttering a small cleaning spell when Sam was aiming the hose at the back of the car and she was scrubbing at the windshield.

"Guess he really wanted a sorry," Sam said. "God, what a douche."

"It'll come off," Hermione said. She went for gloomy but hopeful. She knew Gabriel could get it out in a second, but Sam didn't. "It could be worse. Only the grill is permanent, at least I guess so—maybe Gabriel can pound it out or something. Whatever they do to fix it."

"I could ask Dean," Sam suggested.

"No." She cleared her throat, smiled nervously at him. "It will be fine. It's my fault. Or American slang's fault, since it got me into this whole mess. Who could I write a complaint to for that?"

"Are you sure you don't want me to tell Dean?" Sam asked, hand hovering over the door handle. "He's learned loads of stuff taking care of the Impala from Dad."

"It's fine, absolutely," she insisted. "Go."

No, she would definitely prefer Sam and Dean not be there when Gabriel saw what had been done to his car. He might have made it with a simple snap of his fingers, but Gabriel took his creations seriously, like a hit man with his killing signature.

Gabriel met her at the kitchen door. He took a step out, her one back, and he put an arm over her shoulder as they turned to look at the Falcon. His response, however, was a little anti-climatic.

"I see you've made new friends," he said. "Delightful, delightful friends. I am just dying to meet them."

"John Winchester," was all she said.

Gabriel removed his arm from her shoulders and began pushing her inside. "I can be sneaky," he said. "Now, let me make you feel better—and me—and then we can have lots of sex to get over this. You must be in so much pain."

"I am at least a thousand years younger than you," she said, laughing. She turned before he could push her past the counter, grabbed hold of it and sat down. Gabriel pulled out look number fifteen, the one that said he was _really_ going to grab her when she was asleep (he never did) (well, this time I will, sweet cheeks.)

"I thought you liked men with"—he pulled a move, raising and lowering his eyebrows—"maturity."

"If I wanted that much, I could go to a graveyard," she said.

"Ouch. You're getting better, my dear. Thanks purely to my influence, I'm sure."

"I am going to winkle it out of you," Hermione told him. "I'm not made to be left in the dark."

"Some days I just want to drag those knee socks off with my teeth." He growled.

"You will find yourself displeased with what you find," Hermione said. "And I'm not talking about my legs."

"Deal's a deal, sweetheart," he said. When she blinked, he was standing in blue cover-alls, with a bright red bandanna holding back his hair. She shifted, looked down, looked down again, and glared up at him.

The doorbell rang.

"I am not going outside like this," Hermione growled. It was much better than his, if she said so herself (she did.) "I am _cold_."

"Honey, why do you put on those things if you're just going to complain all day? Silly teenage girls. Now go answer the door."

"You're my godfather," she hissed. " _Fairy_ godfather."

"Should I speak with a lisp?"

"No – not that – " She took a deep breath, turned her glare on Melt. "I am going to floss _vigorously_ tonight."

"Ouch," he deadpanned, rolling his eyes. "Not the floss, no, never the floss."

She stomped away—a little wobbly because of the heels— _feeling_ his eyes where eyes should never be because it was covered in denim so thin and tiny it might as well be part of her skin. She heard him take a deep breath and start muttering, "Why do I do this to myself, why, why, why."

She would have thought _serves you right_ except, you know, she was wearing an outfit made for tiny woodland creatures that happened to be auto mechanics, too. She tried to lengthen the shorts, but the furthest they would go was exactly nowhere. Someone leaned on the doorbell. She opened the door.

Fan- _tastic._

"Dean. Sam." She couldn't even try to make her voice welcoming. The nicest it would go was Medium Melt. "Nice to see you. Eyes on face."

"Hermione," Sam said faintly. He stuttered. "What – what – uh – what?" He coughed, managed to elbow Dean in the ear somehow, dragged his eyes away from her legs, chest, stomach, boots. He coughed again when he saw her face. "Is that your – uh – Halloween costume?"

"No," she said. "If either of you speak about this moment, I will feed your faces to a pond of piranhas. Eyes on face." She sucked in a breath through her teeth. "Trying on old clothes to see if they fit. Obviously these don't. If you'll go through here, Gabriel's in the kitchen."

She let them pass in front of her, closed the door with her back to it—she was _not_ turning her back to anyone, they would _see things_. It was bad enough she could hear Dean muttering to match Gabriel, "Why, why, why."

Her face a permanent shade of fuchsia, she stomped upstairs—stealth may have never been invented, for this outfit—and slammed and locked the door to her room so not even a dragon could have come in. She changed, found her ability to walk without stalking restored, and rethought her plan of breathing outside these four walls again. She thought about labeling the shorts as an evil magical artifact and sending them to Harry to lock up kilometers underground.

She thought about what kind of restraints she would need to dip Gabriel in a pit of boiling tar.

A lot, she decided.

She came downstairs with a long, thick shirt, the sleeves of which reached her elbows, and leggings. No way would she be showing more than her wrists for the rest of the week. Her lifetime skin-showing allowance had been broken in thirty minutes.

"No more old clothes?" Dean asked, looking over the fridge door. His face fell.

"Piranhas," she chirped happily. "Big ones." She took down two glasses as Dean took out the huge jug of kool-aid (a shelf had to be taken out to fit it.) "What are you three doing?" she asked, unable to help her suspicious tone.

"Cleaning the Falcon," Dean said. He shook his head. "Man, Dad would have killed someone if he'd seen what that fuck did."

"Your dad's not here, is he?" Her feet suddenly felt bereft without her trainers. She would have taken the boots in a pinch.

Dean took one look at her wide eyes, her tight face, and snorted. He grinned, laughing silently. "Ah, ha-ha. He did scare you, didn't he? Ha."

"I looked under my bed that night," Hermione informed him. "It's not funny."

"Yeah," he said, laughter cracking his voice, "it kinda is."

"Here." She took the jug away from him, lifted it carefully with both hands. "You have to"—she turned it slowly, methodically, over the glasses, straining her legs as she reached on tiptoe—"get it just right to not spill." There was method in the madness, just like Gabriel. She grinned as she brought the jug down, though her arms hurt from holding it up. She might not be able to save the world by herself, but she could certainly do all the small things to help it along.

"I got it," Dean said, taking the jug from her. His hand covered hers for a moment before he stepped back and she dropped her hands. She cleared her throat, grabbed one of the glasses, and hurried into the garage with it.

"Here you go," Hermione told Sam, having to clear her throat again. She had actually poured it for herself, but. But. She smiled at Sam, ignored Dean as he came out, and looked at the car. She caught sight of Gabriel. "Why are you covered in oil?" she asked, confused. She looked at Sam's shirt, Dean's. "There was no reason to be doing anything with any oil."

Gabriel rested his arms on the trunk. The convertible top had been taken off. She could see it laying on a table against the wall that hadn't been there before. "Exactly _what_ do you know about cars, missy?"

"I read the manual," Hermione muttered, and grabbed her rucksack out of the backseat before following Gabriel's pointed nod to the couch on the far wall (which hadn't been there before, either.)

Gabriel and his stupid—family thing watching over the Winchesters, she groused in her head. She took out her homework folder and settled her feet under her. She tried in vain to ignore the three, but ignoring Gabriel was like trying to ignore a star going supernova left of your nose, and Sam's questions to both Dean and Gabriel actually made her want to know the answer (so _that_ was what a spark plug did), and Dean was. Anyway. She did her homework.

When that was done, she kept her notebook out, but flipped it to a page of old in-class equations so she could look like she was doing something. She traced over the numbers, hand under her chin as she thought. Gabriel's family was watching the Winchesters. That had started in March a year and a half ago, or was at least when Gabriel had told her in a moment of—Gabriel. He referred to his family as America and Russia. One a do-gooding, overbearing, my way or the highway country, and the other exactly like that, but replace do-gooding with human trafficking. She was glad her parents were just dentists. Gabriel was Zimbabwe, which was a country she could not recall ever having close relations to either country (not off the top of her head, anyway,) and he had brought her here to be Switzerland, a famously neutral country.

Obviously, he was not Zimbabwe in the least, but she couldn't think of a country that was as Slytherin as Gabriel was being. Malfoy Manor, she guessed, or the country of origin of Salazar's mother. He was sitting, watching, waiting. He was like the squirrel gathering extra nuts for the winter. Just in case.

While he gathered acorns, Hermione was… Switzerland. She frowned. Where _was_ she? She would be twenty next year, one year away from magical maturity. Did she want to keep doing this for however long? What about when they moved to the next place? Gabriel had mentioned following them. Was she going to resign herself to wearing the equivalent of a handlebar mustache and a trench coat? (She couldn't think of any other disguises (but she knew Gabriel would make it good) because she kept thinking about essence of Bellatrix Lestrange and the foul taste in her mouth she had if she thought about it too hard.)

Could she see herself doing this until Sam graduated high school? University? First answer only.

No, she couldn't do this forever. She liked Sam, she did—and sometimes, she _did_ —and Dean was handsome and he'd fixed her mirror, and they were here now, believing they were helping her (or at least getting under the engine of a classic car) and braving her scary godfather's attention.

Yes, she liked them. She didn't want to see anybody turn them into weapons of a holocaust. She wouldn't want that for anybody, but she felt it a tad bit more for them, and a lot for Harry.

But staying with them forever meant another war. Maybe it was selfish, maybe a god would strike her down for it, but she dug down deep and found a vein of selfishness that ran the length of her heart.

Gabriel had woken her up, but she still dreamt of Bellatrix, asleep and awake.

Maybe that was what Switzerland was, or what she was to be Switzerland, or just who she was as a person, not a country.

She missed her parents, the Weasleys, Harry, Luna, the wizard's wireless. She missed magic that wasn't Gabriel magic, normal magic, _sane_ magic, magic that didn't make her blink. She missed the person she could be by herself, even if she wasn't helping make the cure for lycanthropy. She missed the gravestones of the people who had not become the people they were meant to be. She missed sanity and clarity and not the sanity she felt when she thought of herself as a country.

"What's that?" Sam asked, pointing.

"Borders." Hermione blinked, shook her head. She realized Dean and Gabriel were missing, the car gone, and Sam sitting beside her. She saw she had divided her old classwork into sections. "What?"

"Borders," Sam repeated, smiling at her in that way that made her want to smile back. She did.

"Yes," she said, and used the voice she had practiced to use as Head Girl. "I decided to wage war, differential equations versus integral."

"Fredholm winning?"

She made a noise. "Absolutely. They tried a treaty, but Poisson had the bad judgment to call Fredholm's daughter a trollop, that git. Oh, Merlin. I'm beginning to sound just like Gabriel, except swotty."

"As long as you only sound like Gabriel twenty percent of the time," Sam said. "Otherwise I'm gonna have to ditch you. I mean, I'm glad he's not currently putting me on the rack, but he's kind of crazy and homicidal and did I mention crazy?"

"He usually hides the homicidal tendencies," Hermione said. She smiled at him and looked back at her notebook. "I'm sorry."

"You know what I've noticed about you," Sam murmured. It was a question, but wasn't. She realized for the second time that Gabriel and Dean were gone with the car. The garage door open to the night, to the stars and woods. She realized that Sam was sitting next to her, close, like boards on a fence.

Hermione jumped up, scooping her bag off the floor and crossing the room to the table within seconds. She began packing her folders and notebooks away. "I'm British?" Merlin, he was a _child_. She was an adult. She was _becoming Gabriel_. "You know, the library has a sign-up sheet for tutors. I'm thinking of signing up."

Sam coughed. Her tense muscles twanged, and relaxed when she realized he wasn't close.

"No," he said, clearing his throat, "though you're that too, I guess. I was just saying you apologize too much. I mean, Gabriel's old enough to know better than to scare the crap out of teenagers. It's not _your_ fault."

"I can feel sorry that you had to go through it," Hermione said. She focused her attention on her backpack harder than she'd focused on any examination (maybe not, but it was close.) He was a sixteen-seventeen year old boy who'd just seen her in shorts fit for a grasshopper. She knew all about biology, about the head games chemicals in the body played. He _would_ be focused on sex after those shorts.

"Well, you don't have to for me," Sam told her. His voice was blasé. She swallowed. Good. Let him get over it. "Could I get another drink?"

"Sure," Hermione said, turning. She picked up the two glasses that had been left on the table and said, as airily as she could manage, "Be back in a second."

She was glad she wasn't actually a country. She would hold the record for most civil wars in ten minutes.

*

"Let me guess, you want me to pick you up," was how she answered.

Sam made a face, which was awkward considering the extreme angle he had to keep his neck to hold the phone between his shoulder and face while bending over to tie his shoe. "Not a good morning at el Winchester," Sam said. "Dean forgot to set the stupid alarm clock." The only reason he wasn't still sleeping was because Dad had called to ask Dean to come meet him. Dean had considerately 'forgotten' to wake him up before he left. Then Dad had called back to ask when Dean would get there, cause fuck he was in a hurry to shoot something, and Sam had realized he was speaking to him on Dean's cell phone, which he'd left.

He hated calling Hermione. He didn't want her to think he just hung out with her because she had a car (though some of the time, especially when she started rambling to avoid a topic, yeah.) Plus, he hated being alone with her knowing she hated even the _thought_ of kissing him. Ever since that stupid night she'd used any excuse she could to not hang out with him after school, including using going out with the search groups in the woods to avoid calling him (okay, he kind of realized that that one was pretty legit, but he hated that she made him stupid like that.)

"Bugger," she said quietly. Sam's fingers stopped tying. "Oh, not you," she hurried on. Sam relaxed an inch. "I just can't find something. I think Gabriel stole it. Which he shouldn't have. It is _very important_." Her voice got further away as she raised it. "Is he even here?"

"What is it?" Sam asked.

"My uhm – I can pick you up, absolutely. Do you mind if we stop for breakfast, though? I would wait until school, but have you noticed that the milk tastes rather weird in the mornings and yet in the afternoons they're perfectly fine? Gabriel, where is it? My, my _thing_. No, I'm not talking to you. I looked in the – I looked in the fridge, too, yes, and behind the cheese castle. I am _not_ talking to you. Honestly, Gabriel? She's about to topple over her breasts are so large. No, I do not speak out of envy. No, I will not participate in lascivious acts with - Shut up, oh my, oh my god, I'm on the phone still. Hello, Sam?"

When Hermione pulled up outside the motel, Sam took one step out the door and tripped over his untied shoelace.

She didn't immediately start driving when he closed the door. She sat with her hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead like the road was full of potholes and her tires were on their last leg. "You know how people say it's like living in a dream, but dreams are actually really weird and you never know how you get from one place to the next and sometimes there are zombies petting kittens and sometimes there are brunettes with killer halitosis, but the common denominator is always something out of a B-movie? That's what living in a dream is like."

"I was just looking forward to taco day," Sam said.

"Yes," she said, and sounded sad.

"My dad made you drink holy water," he offered. "Yeah," he said, when she looked over at him.

"Holy water," she repeated.

"Yep."

Crap. Maybe Dean _should_ stop asking Dad to let them live out the rest of the year here, since so many supernatural creatures were active in the nearby areas (lots of woods, creatures love em.) Sam scratched his nose, wondered why the _fuck_ he had just told her that, beyond a general want to commiserate with her over super weird, over the top parental figures.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Has anyone made him drink it?" Hermione asked. Sam looked up. She blinked, then bit her lip, blushing a cute shade of pink. "I mean, no offense, but I still think he's the scariest man I've ever met, and I've met… I've met some scary men. Nexus of evil scary. One even had a snake-head cane."

"He's not evil," Sam said slowly, trying to wrap his head around anyone thinking that. Scary to the bad guys, sure, but Hermione got nervous when she wasn't walking in the crosswalk. But then again, he couldn't see his Dad from her eyes, because he was inside and even if he didn't like his Dad most of the time and got into fights with him every hour, he still _knew_ him, knew he made the best grilled cheeses _ever_ when he bothered and liked to sing under his breath with Aerosmith, and loved him (but he didn't like thinking about that.)

"He's something," Hermione said, shaking her head as she turned back toward the wheel. She put the car in drive. "I wouldn't want to meet the other girls who failed the holy water test. Do you think Ray's on the corner has egg whites?"

"Are you just changing the subject because you're secretly planning on calling child services or are you changing the subject because you're okay with it, if okay means staying around and not telling everyone I'm a freak?"

"Sam," she said, timing her exit onto the street with the gaps between the cars. "Your dad isn't even in my top five strangest moments, however scary he is. No offense."

"None taken."

"Quick: do they have egg whites at Ray's, yes or no?"

"Did you ever find your thing?" Sam asked after they ordered breakfast—they indeed did serve egg whites.

"No," she sighed, folding her arms on the table and resting her chin in her hand. She glared glumly at the tabletop. Sam was tempted to knock her elbow out from under her, just a little, because her face was so pathetic. She shrugged, her lips tightening. "Not like I ever _use_ it anymore."

Sam tried to think of something she could have used before she moved here that she didn't do now. What he thought of made him wince.

"What?" she asked him.

"Nothing," he said, voice a little too high to be normal. He winced again. Did Dean inherit _all_ the talent with girls? "But if you never use it, why do you need it now?"

"It's a safety net. Holy water for demons?" she asked him.

"Uh"—he cleared his throat, wished she hadn't used _that_ to change the subject and did safety net mean she was thinking about doing it and, if so, with whom?—"yeah."

"Demon demons? Summon them from under the earth demons?"

He set his jaw, nodded once.

"Ah. Okay."

"Okay?" he asked. Surprise made his voice go high again. Crap. "Just okay?"

"If you're waiting for me to run screaming, you'll be waiting for a long time," Hermione said, and the way she smiled at him made it a promise.

She seemed happy to keep the rest of the chatter away from demons, and Sam was happy to let her keep up both ends of the conversation (she usually did, anyway.) He watched her out of the corner of his eye as he ate, her exaggerated hand gestures, the way she pointed her fork at him to make a point. She was like a tiny little tornado that went around scaring the crap out of everyone but always apologized after.

Yeah, he could already predict his future fight with Dad.

*

One class he always hated at every school, no matter what he told Dean: science. It didn't matter what they called it—general, life, physical science—it would always be wrong. It never took into account all the crazy things Dad went out and killed. Chupacabras, shape shifters, vampires. How did science explain that? It didn't—it _couldn't_ , ever, even if it knew about all the things in the dark.

He liked this one, though, since Hermione sat next to him and, when they had labs, they'd usually partner up. In the beginning, she was very proper, very Hermione. Raise her hand, write down the homework on the board first thing in her homework folder (c'mon, even he wasn't that dorky,) always participate in group discussions. Now, when she was finished with the in-class work, she'd fidget. Whisper things under her breath that were just out of hearing. Make lists of what kind of creatures were at the top of Trisha Adams's family tree (after he told her about his dad, she added _DEMON_ at the top.) Try to work out how to make paper airplanes (aeroplanes, she corrected him) more aerodynamic and make him throw it over everybody's head in the halls between classes. One time when they were in the science lab and finished with their work, she quietly flashed him a piece of paper that changed colors as she moved it. When he went to reach for it, she crumbled it and blinked in confusion at him when he demanded to see it. She still wouldn't actually _talk_ during class, or ignore the teacher, and she looked at him in wide-eyed horror the time he tried to pass her a note, but there was something very _fun_ about Hermione Granger.

She tried, definitely, to be boring, to pretend as if she didn't know she was slowly becoming popular (sometimes he actually believed her,) and that she was just this dull automaton that lived for homework and telling people in a snotty little voice not to break a rule, but Sam could slowly see the real Hermione Granger as the weeks passed and Dad didn't make them leave. The one who complained about Gabriel packing cupcakes (seriously, who the heck baked so much?) but made sure to eat the sprinkles first, then cake, then icing. The one who made up facts about dragons (the twelfth use of dragon's blood is oven cleaner) and goblins (you don't want to steal from one of them, ever) and broomsticks (they're making a Firebolt v2 from what I hear) and throw them in when she thought he wasn't paying attention to the eleven lectures she had going at one time (he was.) The one who couldn't lie without either scratching her nose or coughing. (Later, he would think back and roll his eyes at himself and Dean would say _God, I'm glad you grew outta that shit._ )

Two weeks before Christmas, Uncle Bobby called Dad and said _that's small fry stuff, I got a huge fucking vampire nest pounding on my door—you in?_

He was.

Time to move the homestead. Hey, you'll get to see Uncle Bobby again.

He predicted the fight, alright. (He lost.)

One day he called the number still in Dad's wallet, written in Hermione's precise hand. Gabriel answered and said, in a voice that made him want to choke him, that Hermione had left; she wasn't coming back for a long time, stop calling.

(He hated science, because he wanted it to be the only truth too much.)

*

Hermione got pissed and sent a Twenty Hours Bad Luck Charm at John Winchester and said yes to Ron when he asked her first night back in England.

She just wasn't made to be neutral.

 _fin._


End file.
